


not just where you bump and grind it

by caersun



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Gen, Pole Dancing Yuuri, Sochi GPF Banquet, Yuuri in Detroit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-11 23:49:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10477356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caersun/pseuds/caersun
Summary: The wanting people to justlookat him, all of him, their attention fixed on him and nothing else, riveted and enthralled and unable to look away. Maybe that’s what he wants. Maybe that’s why he can’t stop thinking about Ms. Bell’s offer. The possibility of it.Inevitably, Yuuri thinks of Victor Nikiforov. Always, in some way, Yuuri is thinking of Victor Nikiforov. He thinks of his performances, the beauty and the stories and the surprises. How Victor on the ice is the one thing Yuuri has never been able to look away from, ever since he first laid eyes on him. How, even now, some part of Yuuri still hopes that one day Victor will look at Yuuri’s skating and see himself reflected there and be unable to tear his eyes away, every bit his equal.Yuuri wants that. Wants it so bad heacheswith it.Or: the one where Yuuri pole-dances at a nightclub and, along the way, manages to qualify for the Sochi Grand Prix Finals. In that order.





	

When the music ends, the first thing Yuuri hears is his own uneven breathing. The second thing he hears is the clapping.

He looks up sharply from where he’s suspended midair by nothing more than his legs around the pole. A nicely dressed woman in pressed slacks is framed in the entrance of the studio room, watching him. She’s clapping. 

Yuuri scrambles, hands coming to wrap around the pole for extra support. His belly heaves, both with the sudden move and the routine.

“I—uh—thank you!” He doesn’t know what else to say.

He had not known there was anyone watching him. He helplessly replays the moves of his routine in his head—the slow undulating of his hips, the stretch of his limbs, his climbs, the sprawls. She must think he’s some kind of pervert. Yuuri can only hope the woman takes the redness in his face as exertion, other than the skittering mortification it actually is.

She is still watching him.

Yuuri clears his throat, for want of anything else, and begins his slow slide down the pole. He chooses to ignore the way the woman’s eyes follow his movements, that same calculating look. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” Yuuri asks, when his feet touch the floor. “The instructor is in the offices, if you’re looking for her.”

“No, no,” the woman says, dismissive and airy. She’s still looking at Yuuri from the outline of the door, as if at any moment he will do something either wondrous or horrible and she is hardpressed to miss even a second. It’s like a judge’s look, almost, appraising him before the start of one of his programs. It makes Yuuri itch. 

“Right,” he says, after a long while. He makes to move towards his bag at the back of the room, and when she does little more than silently continue to track his movements, he decides to ignore her. Whatever she’s here for, Yuuri thinks, she will get bored eventually and leave. 

He’s pulling on his shoes, back to the door, when the woman speaks again.

“How would you feel about a job offer?”

Yuuri flinches back, not having expected her voice to be so close. He turns and sees her, not a meter away. He notices, vaguely, the markers of a fresh wash on her face—smudges of residual eyeliner around her eyes, fringes of wet hair at her hairline, the tinted balm color of her lips—as if she has just finished her own workout. That would explain what she’s doing in the studio so late in the evening. 

“Um.” Yuuri blinks, shoelaces still in-hand. “What kind of job offer?”

“Well, you dance very well,” she says, which is not an answer at all, really. She inclines her head. “I’ve been looking to incorporate some new dancers in my—business.”

Yuuri does not fail to notice her hesitation, the way she quickly averts her eyes before catching herself and looking at him straight-out. He rolls her words around in his head.

“Dancers?” he murmurs. She’s offering him a position as a danseur in her business? Perhaps she runs a dance company, he muses, or is a part of one. It would explain why she’s at the studio so late, likely rehearsing a routine or running through basic training. Yuuri’s flattered, for all of a second. Then, catching sight of the pole in the middle of the room behind her, he realizes. His voice starts to go ridiculously high-pitched. “Wait. You want me to _pole dance_? For _money_?” 

Yuuri knows what that means. Though he’s never been to such a place himself, he’s read stories and seen enough movies to guess. The very thing that made Celestino raise his eyebrows when he first brought up taking pole-dance classes at the studio—what this woman is implying. 

_A strip club._

Because he hasn’t cooled down, his face probably turns an embarrassingly dark shade of red when he flushes, aghast.

“Now, now,” the woman says, and she’s frowning, slightly. She sounds offended. “Don’t make it sound like I’m offering to pimp you out or something.”

Yuuri chokes on air. He tries to speak, to deny and console and scoff at the same time, but all that comes out is a pathetic wheeze of air from his lungs. His fingers are numb, frozen over his shoelaces. 

“You dance well, like I said,” says the woman. “You have a real talent, and I think I would be able to use it, if you’d let me. Here, look.” She rummages around in her purse for a moment and pulls out a small piece of rectangular cardstock. “I’m the the proprietor of a nightclub downtown—a very _successful_ club,” she adds, when Yuuri attempts to hastily push the card back into her hands. “Trust me when I say I don’t usually make unsolicited job offers to the first pretty face I see bent provocatively around a pole. Those are a dime a dozen, believe you me. But I think you have something special that we could both benefit from, given the chance.”

Yuuri has the card in his hand, against his efforts. It feels expensive, silky yet hard beneath his fingertips.

Yuuri’s mouth is no longer directly connected to his brain. He blurts out,“I—I’m a figure skater!” as if that will somehow be enough to refuse the woman’s offer for him without an outright _Hell no._

She reels back, a bit—a relief to Yuuri’s invaded sense of personal space—and purses her lips. “Hm?”

Yuuri realizes he spoke in Japanese. Still red-faced, he repeats himself in English.

“A professional figure skater?” she echoes.

“Yes!”

“Hmm. Well,” she says, “that would hardly be a problem, should you choose to accept my offer. There are ways we can protect your identity, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Yuuri is not worried about that. He hadn’t even thought of it. He supposes, objectively, that sponsors would likely not be enthused about promoting a pole dancer on energy drink wrappers and sportswear. But sponsors and his advertisement potential are just about the farthest thing from his mind right now. His thoughts are running more along the lines of _no no no no no_ and _oh my god this can’t be happening_ and _is she really that impressed? with_ me _?_

_Why?_

Yuuri swallows. 

“Thank you,” he says, back bending a bit as he offers the card back. “But I don’t—”

“Think about it.” The woman waves him off. Her face breaks in a smile, a tiny pull at the corner of her mouth, a surprising thing at being nearly rebuffed. She moves to back out of the room. “Give that number a call—or stop by anytime, whichever,” she says, gesturing to the card in Yuuri’s hands, “if you’re interested. Oh—” She stops, and her smile turns sheepish. “Sorry. I usually get ahead of myself. Whatever comes, it was nice meeting you, Mister…?”

“Katsuki,” Yuuri says, startled into answering. “Katsuki Yuuri.”

“Yuuri.” She says his name like she’s tasting it on her tongue, savoring it for the first time of many. Her smile widens. “I do hope to hear from you soon, Yuuri.”

+

Yuuri tries hard not to think of the card for the rest of week, hidden snugly in the folds of his wallet behind a few crumpled dollars and the “Buy Five, Get One Free” frozen yoghurt punchcard from the place two blocks away that Phichit likes so much. 

Of course, this means he thinks of little else: the card and the woman and the twisting figures he sees when he finally caves and Googles the name of the nightclub on his phone.

 _Bolide_.

Though he dims the brightness lest Phichit pop out of nowhere to look over his shoulder to see what he’s doing, Yuuri really shouldn’t have bothered. Aside from a few photographs of men and women around a pole—most not even performing tricks or poses, just standing beside the pole and smiling—the photos are nearly all of the club itself. Some are shots of a fully-stocked bar, with a bartender mixing drinks. Others of some plump-looking lounge seating, organized spartanly. Mostly, it’s patrons, dancing and drinking and laughing, in various combinations. It looks like any number of clubs Yuuri has ever heard of or been to (not that he’s been to many at all).

A quick search of the woman’s name—Madeline Bell, written at the corner of the card in the same neat, black lettering—yields even less than the search of her club. A few articles with her name in them: the opening of the club, the popularity of it, not much else.

Yuuri bites his lip. He looks around to make sure he’s still alone, pulls out the card, and dials the number. It rings a couple of times, but before it can connect, Yuuri hangs up.

He does not have time for a job, he tells himself, firmly, especially not a job like _this_. So the idea is not as wholly unpleasant and off-putting as he’d originally thought, several days later. That hardly matters.

He has to stay focused on his skating. He’s getting better, he knows he is. Celestino has told him he might even be able to medal in his Grand Prix assignments this season, if he works hard and doesn’t let himself get stuck in his head too much. And medaling means getting closer to his dreams of qualifying for the Grand Prix Final. Celestino does not say as much, he doesn’t have to, but Yuuri understands well-enough: this could be the year he finally makes it. 

But the idea of Ms. Bell’s offer sits at the back of mind, tantalizing. Like a piece of forbidden fruit. Or an annoying rash. Inexplicably present.

It nags at him throughout the day, even when Phichit returns from his last class of the day, and they make their way to the rink for practice.

It’s crazy, is what it is. 

It is not the possible notoriety of the job that appeals to him. Some people back home have started to call him _Japan’s ace_ —or so Minako says—and that already is too much fame for him to handle, let alone for him to seek. And he doesn’t care about the money. Though his student debt is piling on top of itself, the sponsorships are enough to keep it at bay, for now. And it’s not the appeal of sex, either, that Yuuri thinks he wants from Ms. Bell’s offer, why he can’t stop thinking about it. Yuuri can hardly comprehend wanting someone to look at him as something _sexually desirable_ , let alone wanting that from complete strangers. The thought of it is foreign and strange and not at all pleasant.

But maybe, he thinks, as he completes a successful spin combination and Celestino tells him to go again, it _is_ something a bit like that. 

Not the wanting people to want him, sexually—not exactly. In any case, he knows from his classes at the studio that pole dancing does not have to be inherently sexual. But the wanting people to just _look_ at him, all of him, their attention fixed on him and nothing else, riveted and enthralled and unable to look away. Maybe _that’s_ what he wants. Maybe _that’s_ why he can’t stop thinking about Ms. Bell’s offer. The possibility of it.

Inevitably, Yuuri thinks of Victor Nikiforov. Always, in some way, Yuuri is thinking of Victor Nikiforov. He thinks of his performances, the beauty and the stories and the surprises. How Victor on the ice is the one thing Yuuri has never been able to look away from, ever since he first laid eyes on him. How, even now, some part of Yuuri still hopes that one day Victor will look at Yuuri’s skating and see himself reflected there and be unable to tear his eyes away, every bit his equal.

Yuuri wants that. Wants it so bad he _aches_ with it.

But as it is, Victor is unreachable. They have never even been given the same assignments. Probably never will, with Yuuri’s luck. The only way Yuuri can possibly reach him is to be better, and claw himself into standing amongst the top six figure skaters in the world and skate in the Grand Prix Finals. The idea of it is like a dream—ephemeral and impossible. But it _is_ possible. Yuuri reminds himself of that. Possible enough that every missed jump, every underwhelming performance, every sympathetic word from the commentators—they all choke up in his throat, weighing down his skates, shaking the world to its core. 

Yuuri misses two jumps at practice. Celestino frowns, a quick chastisement, and dismisses him.

Yuuri is already grim, thoughts a whirlwind, when Phichit runs into his side, eager.

“Let’s go eat!” he says, hooking his arm through Yuuri’s. “I want to check out that new gastropub that just opened a few blocks away. _Gastropub_ —isn’t that a weird name? It’s like a bar but with fancy food or something.”

Yuuri allows himself to be distracted, putting the thoughts of practice behind him. He chuckles.

“Can you even _get_ into a bar?” he teases. “What are you—seventeen?”

“Hey!” Phichit pouts, but he’s laughing, too. “I’m _nineteen_. And you _know_ that because you sent me a very nice hat for my birthday, thank you very much, don’t think I’ve forgotten, Yuuri.” As if to make his point, Phichit pulls Yuuri’s own hat over his glasses.

“Ah!”

Temporarily blinded, Yuuri stumbles over his own feet, anchored to Phichit’s arm. 

“Besides,” Phichit says, airily, as Yuuri stops to take off his hat, “they only turn people away from clubs and stuff, not fancy _gastropubs_.”

The first thing Yuuri sees when he pulls the hat off is Phichit’s phone, aimed directly at him. The second: Phichit’s smug face.

“Don’t—” Yuuri tries to say, but it’s too late. Phichit is already typing the last few characters on his phone and posting the picture. Yuuri would be embarrassed, if this was not the third time this week Phichit has taken a picture of Yuuri and posted it online. He sighs. Says, lamely, not for the first time, “You’re the worst.”

“I know, but your fans and my follower count love it,” Phichit replies. “So? What do you say? Gastropub tonight?”

Yuuri almost says yes. This is usually what he and Phichit do on Thursdays, since Phichit has an early class and Yuuri has all-day practice tomorrow. And Yuuri is fond of these days, when it is just Phichit and him, with the pressure of classes gone until the next week and without Phichit insisting on dragging him along to another party.

But instead of accepting, Yuuri finds himself thinking about Ms. Bell and her offer. Of Victor Nikiforov and the impossible azure color of his eyes. 

“Sorry,” Yuuri hears himself say, “I have something else I want to do tonight.”

He pretends not to notice Phichit’s confused look as he waves goodbye. 

+

There is already a small line starting to form outside the club.

Yuuri hesitates, glancing between the line, the entrance, and the fine white lettering spelling _Bolide_ over the building’s facade. Swallowing, he steels himself and walks up to the front. He half-expects the people in line to start shouting at him, but they let him pass, uncaring, fiddling with their phones and talking with their friends. The bouncer watches him approach, curious.

“I, uh,” Yuuri says. “My name’s Katsuki Yuuri. Ms. Bell—”

“Ah,” the bouncer interrupts, expression clearing. “Mr. Katsuki. Please, come in. We won’t be open for another few minutes, but you can find Maddie over at the bar, there.” The bouncer points into the dimly illuminated expanse of club, opening the door just enough for someone Yuuri’s size. 

Yuuri squints. He can hardly make out the backlit bar at the end of the large room. 

“Thank you,” Yuuri says, entering. The bouncer nods, closing the door behind him.

The inside of _Bolide_ is both exactly and nothing at all like what Yuuri expects. For one, it is not nearly as gaudily colorful as he thought it would be. The few lights there are cycle between soft purples and blues, and even the lounge seats and tables look more comfortable and welcoming than severely chic. It is a large space, with a second level Yuuri can just make out above him, even dimmer lighting than that on the ground floor. But, exactly as Yuuri feared, a gleaming stripper pole is set up on a slightly raised platform right in the middle of the room, leading up from a stage at the side where a DJ is fiddling with her setup. 

Yuuri tears his eyes away, refusing to be intimidated. He's come this far. He might as well see this through. Ahead of him, he sees Ms. Bell with a clipboard in-hand, marking bottles of liquor off with her pen.

“Ms. Bell?”

She blinks, looking around. She spots him standing awkwardly on the other side of the bar, unsure what do with his eyes and feeling disastrously underdressed in his yoga pants and sweatshirt.

“Yuuri!” Ms. Bell exclaims. “It’s great to see you. And please, you don’t have to call me Ms. Bell. Maddie’s fine.”

“Maddie.”

She smiles, gesturing with her pen. “Why don’t we go to my office? We can talk there. Trust me, in a few minutes, we’ll hardly be able to hear ourselves _think_ over whatever nonsense DJ Tikki has decided to experiment with today.”

Yuuri glances at the girl at the stage— _DJ Tikki_ , with neon pink hair, a sleeve tattoo, and cutoff jean vest. Yuuri has no problem believing she can pop more than her fair share of eardrums. He nods.

Maddie motions for him to follow with a casual wave, up stairs accented with white lights. When they reach the second floor, Yuuri tries not to react. Tries not to gasp and turn tail right there, when he sees several more stages and poles set up here than the single pole downstairs, spaced out into individualized sections. But some part of his terror must show, because Maddie takes one look at his face and says, “Don’t worry. We don’t usually supplement these areas with our own dancers, unless they're requested. This is just mostly for the guests’ entertainment, usually for them to goad their friends into trying out a few poses for shits and giggles. Nothing major.”

“Right,” Yuuri says, slowly.

Maddie’s office is in the back. It is pretty small, as far as offices go, lit only insofar that two floor-lamps border what must be her desk. The walls are lined with some strange material that Yuuri suspects is sound-proofing. 

Maddie takes a seat and gestures for Yuuri to do the same.

“So,” she says, splaying her hands on her desk, “have you given any thought to my offer?”

“Yes.” Yuuri’s hands feel clammy. Grimy. Sweaty. He adjusts his glasses nervously. “I think—I think I would like to give, um, _it_ a chance. To—to—”

“Pole dance,” Maddie says. She’s smiling again, throwing his words back at him. “For _money_.”

Yuuri is startled into a breathless laugh, remembering. “Yes. The chance to pole dance. For money. Except…”

“Yes?”

“I wouldn’t be able to do anything more than a few nights a week, if that. My schedule is demanding, and skating takes priority for me, always. If that doesn’t work, I understand, but—”

“Not to worry,” Maddie interrupts gently. “We can make a few nights work, especially if they’re on the weekend, or at least near enough.”

Yuuri nods. “And I don’t—” He swallows. He’s blushing. He hopes Maddie can’t tell by the lowlights of the room.

“Hm?” she prompts, when he takes too long to continue.

“I don’t want to strip!” The words come out in a rush, half-terrified, half-ashamed. Yuuri clamps his hand over his mouth. His face flames. 

Maddie stares at him—long enough Yuuri begins to panic. Starts to contemplate bolting and never coming back and forgetting this entire crazy idea about _pole dancing_ , of all things. As if it would have even been something he’s good at. As if anyone would even _want_ to see _him_ —when suddenly, Maddie snorts and starts to laugh. It is Yuuri’s turn to stare, looking back at her in wide-eyed bewilderment. She must laugh for a solid minute. Yuuri feels himself twitch, but at least his blush has time to cool off.

“Oh, Yuuri,” she says when she’s done, smiling wide, “I think you and I are going to do great things here at _Bolide_!”

+

Maddie assures him, repeatedly, that he does not, in fact, have to strip in order to pole dance. That actually, despite what Yuuri might’ve thought, she runs a _nightclub_ , not a—and her eyes crinkle as she says this, speckled with unshed tears, mirthful—not a _gentlemen’s club_. There is a difference, apparently. Primarily that while under Maddie’s employment he is to be a dancer, an entertainer meant to encourage patrons onto the dance floor and heighten their club-going experience, not the main show attraction that people flock to and throw money at to see.

Yuuri sags with relief.

But, Maddie informs him, he does have to wear a costume. 

“Nothing too revealing,” she says, when Yuuri balks. “Something pretty is all, good for the aesthetic, you understand. I can’t have you going out there in a tank top and sweatpants, when all our good paying customers come out for a good time in their sequins and Calvin Kleins.”

Reluctantly, Yuuri agrees.

They spend the rest of the meeting discussing wages and hours, including a one-week shadowing period Yuuri will trail behind one of Maddie’s other dancers to see how they operate and another week of training and choreography run-throughs. She emails him an employment contract, once he surrenders his contact information, and he has it signed and sent off the next day.

The two weeks pass too quickly, running between classes and practices in the day and going out to _Bolide_ in the nights. Too soon, Yuuri finds himself standing in the backroom leading to the stage clad in little more than a sparkly black unitard, waiting for his cue.

The music is dulled somewhat by the wall, but it hardly helps calm the mass of nerves lodged in his chest.

He cannot believe he is doing this. His body feels unreal, fake, not unlike how he imagines a mannequin's might feel. As if he is being pushed down by a weight he cannot control and at the same time becoming untethered from gravity and floating away into nothing. 

His one consolation, weak though it is, is that he has felt worse, at near every competition he’s competed in since entering Seniors. The suffocation of his nerves _then_ is insurmountable compared to _now_. He has to remember that. 

He is wearing a small lace, masquerade-style mask to conceal his identity. He is performing for only a handful of drunk twentysomethings, not an international panel of judges. There is nothing to lose, except maybe employment he did not really need in the first place. 

Yuuri breathes and tells himself he can do this. He resists the urge to reach down and stretch the fabric clinging to the folds of his skin.

Outside, there is a tell-tale drop in the music. Yuuri’s cue. With a fortifying breath, he walks out of the back room. 

It is no worse and no better than getting on the ice during competition. He doesn't have his glasses, so when he steps out onto the DJ stage, all he can really see are the strobe lights and the squirming mass of bodies in front of him. From her set-up, Tikki the DJ smiles at him encouragingly and gives him a thumbs-up. 

There is another drop in the music. Yuuri starts moving across the stage, the rehearsal of the motions already ingrained in his limbs from the past week. From the blurry darkness, cheers and catcalls ring out, ready for the scheduled shows _Bolide_ is famous for. If he was not already, Yuuri is sure he is blushing now. He does not look out, refuses to. Instead, he keep his gaze straight ahead, steely.

He reaches the pole on the third drop. The music changes, from voiceless techno to the lyrics of a pop remix, and Yuuri focuses on it, desperate to block everything else out. He walks around the pole, once, re-familiarizing himself with it, and pulls himself up. 

Then, well, it's really just another performance, isn't it? It's not perfect. When are Yuuri’s performances ever perfect? He doesn't land every pose at the correct beat of the music; he's constantly distracted by the ongoing cheers and bright colors blurring his vision; and in a lot of ways, pole dancing a ten-minute routine is a lot more physically demanding than ballet and figure skating could ever be. His arms strain, perspiration sticks the few strands of hair that have come loose from his comb-back to his forehead, his stomach protests, but he finishes. Already, Yuuri starts to berate himself for the mistakes—missed beats, wrong poses, flawed height. 

Pulling himself face-up, he corkscrews his way down the pole and lands on his feet right as the song ends. 

A part of Yuuri expects for commentators to say his name and immediately start dissecting his performance. But there are no criticisms. There are only cheers from the crowd, deafening, hitched up to another few decibels in volume. Yuuri can hardly believe it, can hardly hear himself think. To this crowd, a pretty performance is a pretty performance. It seems impossible, but it’s true all the same. On stage, DJ Tikki grins and motions him back, already shifting the music back to techno. 

Yuuri breathes hard. It takes him a moment to realize: he's smiling, lips stretching wide on his cheeks. 

From somewhere in the crowd, a chant rises up. 

“ _En-core, en-core, en-core…_ ”

Yuuri laughs. His arms, legs, and stomach are severely sore, like they usually are after a good workout. He knows he would not be able to re-do his performance, even if he wanted to. But the mix of voices, rising up even now, make a kind of giddy pleasure bubble up in his throat. 

He grabs onto the pole. Almost immediately, the voices cut off and a cheer resounds. Yuuri laughs again, throwing his head back with the motion. He does not climb, but he waves into the darkness and spins around the pole, his weight anchored by his hand. 

When he stops, the cheers do not. They follow him all the way as he walks back to the stage, a mixture of yells, whistles, and clapping Yuuri lets himself feel down to his toes. 

When he nears the DJ booth, Tikki shouts, “Great job!” She hands him a congratulatory shot glass filled with amber liquid.

Yuuri is not much of a drinker, but there is something about the neon lights and cheers at his back that push him to take the glass and down it back in one go. The liquor burns its way down his throat, unpleasant and aching. He coughs, but it comes mixed with a laugh he cannot help. 

Tikki laughs with him, the sound muffled behind the beat of the music, and dutifully replaces his glass with another. 

Yuuri takes it with a tilt of his head, still laughing. He waves at her with his free hand and walks to the back room. 

There, Maddie is waiting for him.

“So,” she says as soon the door closes behind him and the worst of the music dulls; she is grinning, “what did you think?”

Yuuri can't help but grin back. 

**Author's Note:**

> "Sunday, shouldn't you be working on updating this and your other fics instead of doing lengthy but ultimately meaningless edits?" _Maybe._


End file.
